York's attitude to Metal...
The main band Cairngorm, were OK, the lead singer had a fucking amazing growl on her. She just needed to drop the clean vocals and they would be a million times better. The other two support bands were very mediocre, so much so that I can't even recall what they were called. Mind you, I was already against one of them when Vin told me their guitarist had stolen his missus years back. I told him he should mess his guitar sound up as recompense. But he's a professional and refused. So I offered to fill my bottle with piss and sling it at him instead. I digress. The best band by far were the second on the bill, Fortress, total black thrash attack. They were fucking great with their battle armour and spikes. They cleared the room as well, which gave them points in my book. Afterwards Vin invited me to the open mic night at Dusk. It made quite a change, listening to white man's Delta blues. It was like being locked up in a cell in an Alabama prison
. Except we could leave when we wanted and wouldn't get raped in the showers. This evening finished at three o'clock when I finally crashed out in my bed, pissed as a newt...
Who's house is this?
With the taste of a dead cat in my mouth the next morning I walked over to King's Manor for the First Year Exhibition of the excavation that I had been supervising on. I was there mainly for the free wine. As I arrived I saw steams of students walking out. I asked why they were leaving and they told me that the wine was disgusting. Fucking trust fund babies. In my student days we would have drunk bleach if it was free. Anyway, after the wine had gone I went along with the remaining students to various pubs, where they all got drunker and drunker and clumsily flirted with one another. This seemed to involve punching one another or bellowing in each others ears. Who said romance was dead, ay? I found myself in the pit of Hell, also known as the Willow Restaurant, the maddest ex-Chinese resteraunt (they lost their food license) in the North of England. Taking my leave, I don't remember how, I ended the night at Alia's house saying goodbye to her for the 67,927th time this week and stumbling into a taxi after twelve hours on the sauce. There was meant to be one final drinking session last night at the end of year King's Manor party, but my body reacted against me and I couldn't even move out of the house.
Taxi for one!
And finally. I posted John's Satnav back to him on Tuesday at about two o'clock. I texted him to let him know that I had and to tell me when it arrived. He thanked me in the reply and I asked him if it had arrived yet. The conversation then went as follows:
He: No, I'm stood at the front window waiting for it. I saw a parcelforce van go past but he didn't stop. He might have just got lost, I'll tell you if he comes back
Me: Keep me updated, I'm gasping to know what's happeneing.
He: I saw a black man outside on the street! You have no idea how rare that is here. He looked lost too. Still no parcel.
Me: Fucking Post Wankers, I sent it two hours ago, what are they playing at?
Then I heard nothing until 11:54pm when I got the following text:
He: I don't think he's coming today. I might go to bed in a bit.
Me: Hmmm, I'm not sure you should. There may have been a crash on the motorway that delayed the van. Give it a couple more hours.
At 07:44 the next morning I receive this:
He: I'm really tired. It must have been a bad accident because he still isn't here yet.
Then at 10:28 the final text comes through:
He: OMG it finally came, the man looked okay I don't think the accident was all that bad, I'm going to sleep now, thanks alex.
You really can't make this shit up.
